Everyone in Nairobi is reading now Chimamanda’s Americanah. Let me refine that. Everyone in Nairobi who considers himself the rightful ratio of urbane and academic is reading now Chimamanda’s Americanah – purchased it in the last two months then gobbled it down within days. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s latest novel was

“One death is a tragedy, one million is a statistic.” Joseph Stalin. I admit: I do terribly with grief. I timeout without even realizing it. I curl into a little ball of emotion and keep to myself, bemoaning the temerity of the day: how can life go on when there

It’s 1530hours. Tuesday. I write this from a table on the shaded patio of Tamasha Hurlingham. I have just solely devoured a platter for two with the shamelessness of an obese 10-year-old. Now, I slide down in my seat, belly out. Nipping on a toothpick and stewing in the embarrassing

I look at him bent over the table; intently completing the dailies Sudoku puzzle and the adage ‘I am my father’s daughter’ could not have been any clearer than at this moment. I have his hair; the wispy hair that grows too fast for its own good. It is the

I continue to wear the new girl tag around my neck. I continue to wear it because I haven’t quite settled in to the regularity of a routine. A routine which includes, among other things, a payday that comes at the end of the month. So it was that on

It is wrong for a woman to decide a man’s pleasuring prowess based on the first kiss only. Maybe his cardboard lips were purely out of the nervousness your grace and beauty stirred. Maybe his sweaty palms were the reason he wrapped his arms too awkwardly around your waist. Maybe